


Lessons Learned

by jillyfae



Series: Sweetest of All Sounds [3]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Family, Grief/Mourning, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because of our family, or in spite of it, we're all an echo of our pasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons Learned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owlmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/gifts).



> originally a headcanon prompt on tumblr, it sort of ... devolved into fic instead?

Her mother taught her how to sit, how to sew, how to dance, how to say thank you gracefully even if you thought the person complimenting you was an idiot.

How to offer a compliment in turn, no matter how difficult it was to think of something nice to say, because manners mattered.  Because to cause a hurt by accident was no less painful to the one you harmed than if you’d intended every bit of it.

How to tell when someone wanted something of you, no matter how sweet and charming their words or their eyes.

Her mother also tried to teach her how to cook, but she never did have the patience for simmering or baking … she wanted it done, and never quite understood the difference a few more moments could make. As such her food was perfectly edible, but seldom inspired.

Her mother had much more success teaching her how to test unknown substances to see how poisonous they were, and the best way to pack bottles in one’s pack so they didn’t crack, and how to smile so the person you were smiling at could tell you thought they were an idiot, but as you hadn’t actually said anything they wouldn’t be able to argue with you.  

But that wasn’t until she was older.

* * *

His mother taught him the rigors of noble manners, how to turn a phrase or pause or look to your advantage.  How to ignore the things that were not worthy of acknowledgment.  How to communicate with shifted glances and color and fabric and timing, how to watch for every shift of expression or posture, every choice of style, and occasionally even the substance hiding in the shadows.  

He learned how to dress, how to move, how to express displeasure with one smooth shift of an eyebrow until the person under your regard crumbled and apologized, whether they were remotely at fault or not.

Not that she ever bothered to actually  _instruct_ him in such things, of course, that was beneath her station.  He was very good at learning through observation.

When he was older, she had only one more thing to teach him, once again only by example.  She taught him how to wield silence like a weapon, cold and eloquent and brutal.

* * *

Her father taught her discipline, always discipline.  How to listen to yourself and not anyone else, because sometimes the voices wished you harm, and were very good at sounding like your sweetest dreams.

He taught her control, and patience, and how important it was to laugh, no matter how cold or wet or hungry or tired or bored.

He taught her not to torment her brother and sister, even when  _they started it, Papa._

He taught her how to guard, and protect.

He tried to teach her how to whittle, how to carve, how to let one’s breath go and follow the line of the grain, to set free the shapes hiding in scraps and blocks and planks.

That lesson never took, however, so instead she taught herself to sing for him, soft and sweet and low, in time with every cut and curve he shaped into the wood.

In the end, he taught her how to grieve, how to put one foot in front of the other even when your heart was broken.

* * *

His father made sure he was taught.  Genealogy, heraldry, history, geography, politics, mathematics, philosophy, swordplay, horse-back riding, tactics, a smattering of art and music to allow for appropriate and interesting conversation in mixed company.

But only proper music, of course, none of the local tales and songs, nothing of the heritage of the people of Starkhaven.  Orlesian instead, things of noble worth and virtue, nothing too uncouth.  Even tevene was better, though to be indulged in only with care.  The Vaels had a reputation for piety to uphold.

He kept studying his father’s lessons even after the tutors left for the night.

How to stay out of the way when  _the important people are talking now._

How to be silent.  

How to watch, and see, and learn all the things that no one bothered to teach him at all.

How to hide himself and put on a mask, whichever one fit the situation.  A smile for family, a wink for a handsome servant, a bowed head at Chant, a still body at Court, a straight spine and the slightest hint of regret across his face when being reprimanded.

He got particularly good at that one.  His arms-master despaired of him, his brothers sabotaged his every formal presentation, his father’s voice grew colder and colder, his mother’s eyes ever more distant.

When his Grandfather died and the Vael bow was put on display out of reach and Sebastian was reminded  _not to make a fuss at the funeral, nothing too unseemly_ , he learned how to swallow his temper despite the burn in his throat and his eyes, how to hide his grief without the clench of hands or the shift of shoulders.

The last lesson he let himself learn from his father was how to hate, deep in his gut, where no one else could see it, hidden behind sweet words and a sweeter smile.

* * *

Sebastian taught her how to finally let grief go, to cry her tears and feel her heart beat again and to realize that looking forward didn’t mean she had to forget everything they’d taught her.

Adelaide taught him that he was capable of more than shallow words across the ache in his chest.  That he could mean every single one of them, could let the anger go.  Could love someone, and be loved in return, and have both of them be all the stronger for it.


End file.
